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A SELECT CIRCLE 


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A SELECT CIRCLE 


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George Winslow Fierce 
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Of Boston, Massachusetts, U. S. A. 


Author of 

Four Other Printed Books and Seven Songs, 
Melodies and Words, Sheet Music 
(with Portraits). 



COPYRIGHT 1904 


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BY — 


George Winslow Pierce 


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Entered at Stationers Hall 


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A SELECT CIRCLE. 


‘‘Bring the Bible, Celestine,” 
said Papa Anderand. It con- 
tained, among other important 
things, the date of Papa’s mar- 
riage, the week before Elena 
was born, who was to marry 
Reuben English. 

“They are well suited to one 
another.” 

“Exactly alike! When I 
married your mother I took my 
opposite, believing that the short 
should marry the tall; the poor, 
the rich; the red, the pale; the 
fat, the slender; and ^ee what a 
fine girl I have got to pay for 
it.” 

“You flatter me. Papa.” 

“You ought to be flattered, 
my love, and more too; and I 

5 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


judge by the ringing of that 
bell— 

“Papa!’’ 

“Mr. Poland!” said the ser- 
vant, “asks for Miss Anderand.” 

“I called to inquire,” said Mr. 
Poland, after the morning salu- 
tations had been exchanged in 
the parlor, “if it would be well 
for us to prepare for the cere- 
mony in which we are to take 
part by going over it together. 
We shall want to know how to 
do it ourselves.” 

“Mr. Poland, you are jest- 
ing.” 

“Will you have me in earnest? 
I love you. Celeste.” 

“I am half glad, Mr. Poland, 
and entirely sorry; glad to win 
6 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


the regard of my friends, and 
sorry that you will be disap- 
pointed.” 

“Not in you.” 

“You would certainly be dis- 
appointed in me ; and it is better 
for you to be disappointed of 
me. I am a very practical 
woman; there is not a bit of ro- 
mance about me. You are a 
sportsman, and have day- 
dreams and write verses. There 
is nothing at all that adapts us 
to one another — and — I do not 
at all return your affection. 
We are friends, Mr. Poland; to 
answer your first question, I am 
quite ready — 

“Excuse me. Miss An — 
“Celeste, if you please.” 

7 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“There is one more question I 
wish to ask.” 

“I am all attention.” 

“Have you answered me ac- 
cording to a theory you believe, 
or have I heard the answer of 
your heart?” 

“Not my heart, Mr. Poland; 
that was not awakened.” 

(Mr. P. to himself.) “I’ll an- 
swer the conclusions of her head 
— and then — 

(The bell rings again.) 

“Good-morning, Celeste.” 

“Good-morning, Mr. Jack.” 

“Mr. Bellows,” said the ser- 
vant, “asks for Miss Anderand.” 

“I came to ask,” said Mr. 
Bellows, after the customary 
8 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


salutations were ended, “as we 
were to take part — ^but why do 
you smile, Miss — 

“Go on, Mr. Bellows; I beg 
your pardon. 

You were saying — 

“I’m blessed if I know what I 
was saying. Celestine — 

“Mr. Bellows, I’m very inat- 
tentive this morning. I have a 
cake — will you excuse me one 
minute?” 

(Mr. B. to himself.) “Con- 
found this housekeeping. It’s 
my cake that wants baking. 
What were servants — 

“Now, Mr. Bellows, I am at 
liberty.” 

""Celestine, my — 

“Tommy, will you do me a fa- 
vor?” 


9 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Most certainly.” 

“Will you give me your opin- 
ion of the prospect of war in Eu- 
rope?” 

(The bell rings.) 

(Mr. B., rising.) “It is alto- 
gether too much talked about.” 

“Stay, Mr. Bellows.” 

“A letter,” says the servant, 
“for Miss Anderand,” who takes 
it, smiling and blushing just a 
little, but turning, without open- 
ing it, to her caller. 

“If you and Mr. Poland, Mr. 
Bellows, would like to rehearse 
together, I am at your service at 
any time.” 

“Good-morning, Celestine.” 

“Good-morning, Mr. Bel- 
lows.” 


10 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


She meets her father in the 
doorway as she follows her 
caller. You were speaking of 
the bell, Papa, when I inter- 
rupted you, I fear it is broken.” 

“It is the belle in the parlor 
that is the cause.” 

“Indeed, Papa — 

“You cannot help it, my dear; 
and I suppose (to himself as he 
goes otit) they cannot, either.” 

A tall, graceful, elegant, el- 
derly woman enters. 

“Why, Mother, you are down 
early!” 

“I trust I have not interrupt- 
ed my daughter’s tete-a-tetes.” 

“Indeed, I wish you had.” 

“Why, daughter?” 

“To begin with, Mr. Poland 
has asked me to marry him, and 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


I have refused him, and 
Tommy — 

“What of Master Tommy?’' 

“He was very near coming 
to the same point, but I inter- 
rupted him.” 

(The bell rings. The servant 
announces Mr. Munro.) 

“Are you going to leave us, 
Mrs. Anderand; we might want 
your opinion?” 

“My opinion, Mr. Munro, is 
at your service on any question 
which you may be unable to 
agree upon with my daughter.” 

“I thought after writing — 

“I beg your pardon; I have 
not yet read your letter.” 

“I thought after writing I 
would withdraw my agreement 
12 


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to stand up with Reuben, while 
fully appreciating his friend- 
ship. It postpones my voyage; 
and two couples — 

“Why, Henry — I mean — I 
am surprised. Is that what you 
have written me in this letter?” 
“I am — you will laugh at me.” 
“Speak out. We are friends. 
And fear nothing.” 

“I’m moody, and am not fit 
to be present. I’m sick and 
ought to go away. And then, 
besides, I’m too much interested 
in one of the bridesmaids. 
Nothing goes right with me. I 
am poor. There is nothing prac- 
tical about me. I take trips, 
write verses, dream day and 
night, am full of fancies, and 
13 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


have no heart for serious work, 
no sense, you might say.” 

“Common sense, Mr. Munro, 
is a drug nowadays ; but there is 
a market for romance.” 

“I cannot regard this life as 
serious; it seems to me but the 
setting of the life we live in im- 
agination; and, besides — 

“Say no more, Henry; I un- 
derstand you. I believe you are 
right. Our real lif e is a romance. 
We could not endure it other- 
wise, an endless round of calls 
and ceremonies. We all go with 
you if you must go. And do not 
forget your friends at home. I 
shall read your verses and your 
letters with interest whenever I 
find them in the papers, or you 
14 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


are kind enough to remember me 
personally. You are not poor 
with your accomplishments, nor 
very sick, if you will beheve me. 
Good-by, my dear friend, a 
pleasant journey and safe re- 
turn to you.” 

“Good-by, Miss Anderand — 

( She gives him a look. ) 

“My dear Miss Anderand.” 

“Good-by.” 

“Good-by.” 

“Now I can’t go to the cere- 
mony,” said she to herself, “O 
dear me!” 

The bell rings again. A card 
for Miss Celeste. 

“I cannot see him,” said she to 
the servant; “I am sick.” 

15 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Is my opinion required, my 
daughter?” asks the mother, in 
her room up-stairs. 

“O dear, no. Mother; he said 
he was poor, and sick, which I 
couldn’t deny, and romantic, 
and moody, and writes verses, 
and has dreams, which he is wel- 
come to be and do, and didn’t ask 
me anything at all, not even for 
sympathy, unless indirectly, 
which he had just the same.” 

“He is a fine lad. There is 
something about him, I don’t 
know what, which makes me 
think of another life than this.” 

“He is in love, Mother, with 
one of the bridesmaids.” 

“Which one?” 

“It would not be hard to tell 
16 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


that. It would be a heartless 
girl that would ill treat him.” 
“Did he say which one?” 

“I know it isn’t me/' 

Celestine has gone to her own 
room and on the way has 
dropped — catch it, some fairy, 
crystallize it, and set it in gold, 
with a charm round it! — a tear. 

“Poor Henry!” said she. “I 
wish he were happy. He said he 
was poor — and so am I.” 



A SELECT CIRCLE. 


Three years have passed. 
Mother Anderand is a widow. 
Papa died of apoplexy, was 
buried yesterday. The will, re- 
turning his wife’s real estate, 
which was used to give him 
credit in his business, is con- 
tested, or will be, and the execu- 
torship, by creditors. The bell 
rings. “The ladies” are inquired 
for, and Celestine goes down to 
excuse her mother, without stop- 
ping to look at the card. 

“Why, Elena!” 

“Why, Celestine; I should not 
know you! Do not take it so 
hard. My papa, too, is dead; 
and your mother’s fortune is suf- 
ficient.” 

“It goes to his creditors, but 
18 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


never mind that. Poor papa! — 
I mean poor me!” 

“Your mother — 

“Is happy. She says she did 
everything she could for him and 
owes me to him in this life, and 
will soon join him in the next. 
And how is your husband, and 
the baby?” 

“Very well. Reliben has 
heard from Henry Munro.” 

“Is it all in that letter? Let 
me take it and read it and send 
it back to you, not to interrupt 
our conversation.” 

The caller departs and the 
next one announced is Mr. Po- 
land. 

“Celeste,” he says; “you have 
my sympathy in your double 

19 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


misfortune. I have succeeded 
my grandfather in his business 
and shall build a new house. 
May I ask if the practical in life 
still overrules the romance, in 
your mind?’’ 

“Alas! no, Mr. Poland; I 
have come round entirely to 
your way of thinking.” 

“Then will you permit me, 
Celeste, as we have been friends 
so long, to offer you again all 
that there is in me and for me — 

“Alas! Mr. Poland, I might 
ask for your sympathy; I can- 
not accept your love.” 

(Mr. P. to himself.) “What 
new understanding of this 
woman have I got to have?” 
Another caller is announced, and 
20 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


Mr. P. goes. Next day comes 
Mr. Bellows, the other grooms- 
man, and is admitted. 

“Celestine — 

“Excuse me. Tommy, I have 
a question I want to ask you.’’ 

“Please ask it, then; that is, if 
you please.” 

“How could I earn a living?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean we are poor; and I 
must earn my own support.” 

“I really just know of but one 
good situation — 

“Tommy!” 

“I will inquire. Good-morn- 
mg. 

“You know my name.” 

“Good-morning, Celestine.” 

“Good-morning, Tommy.” 

21 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


The next day, by the introduc- 
tion of friends, Celestine, a good 
penman, begins as a copyist in 
the Registry of Deeds. 

And then comes the contest 
for the executorship. The will 
prevails, friends come forward 
with heavy bonds, and the sale 
of the estate is put off for a lit- 
tle while. Henry Munro has 
had good luck and has taken the 
mortgages for an investment, 
with money he has sent home; 
and the rents are paying the in- 
terest and a little more. The 
business was all done through 
Reuben, who pronounced it safe; 
and Henry himself was willing 
enough. He would lose, if need 
be, for old friends, he wrote; and 
22 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


Celeste’s refusal to accept his 
offer came too late. She had 
not been consulted, but wrote a 
remonstrance, and received a 
very kind letter : 

“My dear friend, — I am hap- 
py to hear that you are better. 
We could not think of accept- 
ing your charity, for charity it 
is, while ever rejoicing in your 
good fortunes. 

Sincerely yours, 

C. Anderand.” 

“My dear Miss Anderand, — 
No less a friend than Reuben 
English has invested my money, 
with no thought of charity. Ac- 
cept my sympathy and kind re- 
membrance. Henry Munro. 

I am coming home some time next year. 

23 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


That was all there was to it, 
but to Celestine it was plain 
enough. The world is wide. 
Real life begins where the feel- 
ings of our youth leave off, ex- 
cept to such of us as are per- 
mitted to live our romance. 

Mrs. Anderand died. She 
had lived out three score and ten. 
The rents improved; but Celes- 
tine continued to do copying, till 
one day her attorney, a Mr. 
Spenser, called upon her. 

‘T have called to congratulate 
you. Miss Anderand, on the 
present arrangement of your af- 
fairs in my hands, and I want to 
say that it is quite unnecessary, 
in my opinion, for you to work 
out.” 


24 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“My choice is made,” was her 
reply. 

“If you will work I could af- 
ford to pay you a considerable 
advance on your present wages 
in my own office.” — 

“If you would listen to me I 
would offer you all I have and 
myself into the bargain.” 

“No, Mr. Spenser.” 




A SELECT CIRCLE. 


The next week Mr. S. was 
missing, and his defalcations 
were in the papers. He had been 
Papa’s counsel; and concealed 
claims were now discovered. 
Word came from Munro to in- 
vest in these, too. ‘‘No,” wrote 
Celeste; “you own now every- 
thing but me. Pray keep your 

money. Sincerely yours 

and he would not take the hint. 
Then came the sale. 

“You need not hurry,” was 
the message to Celeste, who was 
preparing to remove. Henry 
Munro had bid it all in. 

She could not refuse an offer 
to allow her to redeem it in time 
and save her home, although 
now the margin was the other 
26 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


way, the copying helping to fill 
the gap. 

Finally he comes back and she 
receives him with smiles and 
tears, his health improved, and 
asks her advice. “You know, I 
suppose, of my regard for Fan- 
nie Tiverton (another brides- 
maid). She is unmarried and 
inclined to favor me. That 
would bring me back; but my 
good fortune has departed. I 
had to borrow, on my honor, to 
get home, and must have help, or 
sell you out. Ought I to tell her 
that, too? She knows of my 
good luck and has some money 
in her own right. We might be 
independent if united, and you 
might also.” Poor Celeste could 
27 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


hardly answer, “If she cares not 
enough for you to bear your ill 
as well as your good fortune, she 
is, I fear, unworthy of you. As 
a matter of conscience you know 
yourself, without asking me, 
whether to tell her. Do not ask 
me too much. I do not under- 
stand business very well and am 
not very well myself. I am glad 
to see you ; and I am sorry, I am 
sorry — I don’t know why.” 

He came back next day. “She 
says she appreciates my devo- 
tion and my honesty, and will 
give me an answer next week — 

“She will?” 

“She will.” 

“O Henry!” 

“What, my dear friend?” 

28 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“A true woman would have 
given her answer then and 
there/’ 

“I thought as much; but I 
was a suitor ; it was not for me to 
find fault.” 

“You love her?” 

“Don’t I?” 

“Does she love you?” 

“That, indeed, I have asked 
myself.” 

The houses were now all let 
to lodgers. He took a front 
room and Celeste went up into 
the back attic in what had been 
her home, and they held on, it 
was the best they could do, till 
the market should rise ; and then 
everything went on in a hum- 

29 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


drum, old-fashioned way. The 
world grew older, but no wiser 
nor better, and they, too, grew 
older, perhaps wiser, but hardly 
any happier. 

It was Elena’s doorbell that 
rang next, and the servant ush- 
ered in a lady. “Why, Fianniel” 

“I was afraid, Elena, I should 
not find you at home.” 

“You look as if you had some 
news to tell me.” 

“It is about Henry. He has 
never given me any peace. I 
thought as I was not yet married 
I might as well — it might be my 
fate — accept him, when he wrote 
me all about his good fortune.” 

“Do you love him, Fannie?” 

30 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“I don’t love anybody. I re- 
spect and like him.” 

“What would you rather be, if 
you had your choice in life?” 

“I would rather be a rich 
widow.” 

“Why does he love you, Fan- 
nie?” 

“That’s what I have asked 
him, again and again, what he 
sees in me and why he cares for 
me — and he cannot give me an 
answer.” 

“I will tell you. It’s because 
he sees the angel in yoti; sees 
what you do not see yourself and 
never will if you continue to lead 
a selfish life. I don’t deny your 
fascinations, or rather, perhaps, 
he sees what you might be with a 

31 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


share of his nobleness of charac- 
ter — what your children would 
be if his. I am getting beyond 
my depth. I beg your pardon 
if I have offended you, Fanny; 
but whatever he sees or feels, for 
he may not see it, it is something 
more than you are to your other 
friends, or even yourself, or ever 
will be, unless a change should 
come into your life. You are op- 
posites. He is reserved and 
rather conceals his strongest 
feelings. You, on the other 
hand, could make any man be- 
lieve, if you tried, that you were 
in love with him.” 

(The bell rings.) “It is only 
Mr. Poland. He is going to 
ride horseback with me and Reu- 
ben this afternoon.” 


32 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 




“Couldn’t you get me an invi- 
tation to go too?” 

“O yes; why not?” 

Mr. P. comes in and shakes 
hands; and Miss T. remarks, 
“This is an unexpected pleas- 
ure.” 

“I’ve come to ask Mrs. Elena 
to excuse me from an engage- 
ment I had with them for this 
afternoon. Matters of business 
demand my attention at the 
store. There is nobody else to 
attend to them properly.” 

“Certainly, Jack; but you 
have disappointed both of us.” 

“Why so?” 

“O Mrs. English,” interrupt- 
ed Fannie, “I forgot all I was 
going to tell you.” 

33 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Please excuse me,” said he. 

“You are not going, Mr. Po- 
land?” 

“If you please, Mrs. English. 
Good-morning, Miss Tiverton; 
good-morning, Elena.” 

“Well, that was cool,” said 
Miss Tiverton after he had 
gone ; “I really believe he under- 
stood you.” 

“Oh, no; how could he? I 
didn’t say anything.” 

“You said "both of us" as plain 
as you could speak.” 

“Well, if I did, was that not 
what you wanted?” 

“Let me give you a maxim: 
Never fire the gun after the 
game is out of sight.” 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“But I must go. There’s 
Mr. Evans standing on the cor- 
ner waiting for a car. Good- 
morning.” 

“Do you know him?” 

“Not to speak to him.” 

Off she goes, while Mrs. Eng- 
lish exclaims to herself, “And a 
married man, too!” 

Some one enters the door. 
“Reuben, is that j^ou?” 

“It is I, my dear.” 

“I’ve had two callers: Jack, to 
excuse himself for this after- 
noon, and Fannie Tiverton, who 
has left me to ride down town 
with Mr. Evans.” 

“I saw them pass, sitting op- 
posite, alone in the car.” 

“She does not know him to 

35 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


speak to, she says.” 

“They were not talking, but 
appeared to be making eyes at 
one another, at least he was. 
Her back was towards me.” 

“Foolish girl!” 

“She may be foolish; but her 
folly is all carefully calculated, 
in my opinion.” 

“You never liked her.” 

“She was your choice, my 
dear, for the most delightful oc- 
casion of my life.” 

“My Reuben!” 

“And you haven’t kissed me 
yet. How do you do, and how 
have you been, this morning?” 

“Quite well; but I’m always 
better for seeing you.” 

“Here comes Henry; we’ll 

36 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


ask him to ride with us.’’ 

“He can take Testy, which 
needs exercise, but which you 
and I are a little afraid of.” 

“He’s afraid of nothing.” 

“He can manage a horse, but 
doesn’t know how to manage a 
woman.” 

“You ought to have seen him 
riding the mare, with me on 
Topsy, to the stable, the last 
time we were out together.” 

“What did she do?” 

“She threw up her heels be- 
fore he got off ; something 
pricked her, I suppose, about 
the saddle, and he, he just laid 
that whip over her fore quarters 
till it did me good, and the mare 
stood still, all of a tremble. 

37 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


Then he spoke gently and she 
walked in and let him get off in 
the stable. He was lame next 
day. She had strained him 
across the small of the back, 
somehow or other; but he was 
ready to try her again.” 

“He is of a very determined 
disposition.” 

“Not to be trifled with.” 

“But he is trifled with just the 
same.” 

“Women, my dear, are not 
alike; and there are few of 
them like you.” 

She gives him a kiss, which 
ends the conversation. 

Then F annie Tiverton was re- 
ported engaged. She was mar- 

38 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


ried; and her husband went into 
business with her brother Sam. 
They failed and lost a good 
share of father’s money. And 
then her husband sickened, pin- 
ing away with dyspepsia and 
consumption, until within three 
years he died. Her father had 
died, and she was what she 
wanted to be, a rich widow. 

There was a Young Ander- 
and all this time, but it has not 
been necessary to mention him; 
short and fat, indeed, like his 
father, and with his father’s 
shrewdness and good nature. 
He had brought up the business 
to its former footing, and has 
just married the girl of his 
choice, pretty and spiritual, and 

39 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


— shall I say it? — very rich in 
possession and expectation. 
They redeem the old house; and 
Henry Munro has given notice. 
He is too poor to continue to 
pay for his lodging in the front 
room up two flights, and has 
just asked Miss Anderand to 
excuse him, at the end of the 
fortnight. 

“You saved my home; you 
were my friend when I needed 
one most and had no other — and 
now you are going.” 

“I have had my pay, principal 
and interest ; and all our troubles 
are happily settled. This is a 
house for the rich; I cannot sup- 
port myself in it and am out of 
place.” 


40 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“It is mi/ house; and I shall 
never be rich while you are 
poor.” 

And then he would not take 
the hint. 

“You will at least make us a 
visit. The rent is nothing; we 
should not let the room if you 
gave it up.” 

“I could not take your money 
or its equivalent.” 

“You could risk yours.” 

It was settled, at last, that the 
rent should cease and he should 
share the hospitalities of the 
family for a fortnight; “and 
then,” said she, “if you must go, 
you must; and wherever you go 
we all go with you. You are 
getting nothing but thanks for 

41 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


a service which I could never 
fully repay.’’ 

“I could not draw on your 
gratitude.” 

“It is not all gratitude.” 

“Whatever it is, my dear 
friend,” said he, rising and tak- 
ing her hand, “I have not de- 
served it and must not take ad- 
vantage of it.” He looks at his 
watch. “Good-morning, my dear 
Miss Anderand.” 

“Good-morning, Henry,” she 
said with a smile and a tear in 
her eye at the same time, and 
watched him from the window 
as he stepped down the street, 
but did not look back. The 
door had opened unnoticed and 
let in Elena; and the next min- 
42 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


ute, as she turned round, the two 
women fell into one; another’s 
arms, both shedding tears, with- 
out a word. Then Elena sat 
down. She was full of life and 
plans for the week, and had a lit- 
tle piece of news for Celestine, 
which she told with quite un- 
necessary confidence and secrecy, 
but which gave them an ex- 
cuse for kissing one another. 
She was in love, entirely, with 
her own husband; and he de- 
served it. “We are not roman- 
tic,” said she, “but we love one 
another. I cannot remember 
when I didn’t know him and 
wasn’t fond of him.” 

“It is better,” said Celestine, 
“than being romantic, and not 

43 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


being beloved; but, after all, 
there is happiness in love if it is 
clouded” — checking herself. 

“Let them speak who know,” 
was the reply; and then they 
kissed each other again. 

“And your brother and sis- 
ter?'" 

“Will be here to lunch, de- 
lighted to see you.” 

“O, my dear, it is late; I have 
quite forgotten my list of er- 
rands. Can you go with me?” 

“Not to-day, but to-morrow 
or the day after. Good-by, 
dear.” 

“Good-by, dear; and be hap- 
py ! There is everything in 
store for such as you.” 

“In Heaven, perhaps,” says 

44 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


Celestine to herself, as she 
stands smiling in the doorway, 
looking after her friend, the 
bright morning sun throwing a 
glory on a cloud of golden hair, 
an erect figure, and sweet youth- 
ful face, which justifies her 
name. 

A dark man has got in, the 
next day hut one, to a street car ; 
heavily built, rather cast down, 
with a great strong jaw; and the 
car stops for two ladies. They 
are Elena and Celestine, signal- 
ling the conductor from the side- 
walk. He does not see them as 
they take their seats, being ab- 
stracted, with other persons be- 
tween, when, suddenly, in the 
46 


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street is a great hue and cry. 
“Mad dog! Mad dog!’’ and a 
rush from behind. In an instant 
the car is cleared — all but the two 
ladies and Henry Munro, and a 
great shaggy brute has rushed 
into it with mouth open and 
dripping jaws. Elena dashes 
past out at the front end, the 
way the rest went, and the beast 
has thrown himself on Celeste 
and is tearing her dress. A rush 
like a bolt and Henry is strug- 
gling on the floor, with the 
beast’s throat in his powerful 
hands, uttering himself short, 
fearful growls as the animal 
wrestles and tears right and left 
his bosom and sleeves, and spat- 
ters his face and them with 
46 


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blood and foam. Celeste stands 
by him perfectly still. “Can I 
do anything?’’ 

“There is a knife in my right 
breast pocket. Open the big 
blade and cut him, if you can, in 
the side of his throat, as deep 
as — 

The struggles increase and 
are too much for her slender as- 
sistance; but Henry Munro will 
not let go. 

She has taken a pistol from 
the grasp of one of the pursuing 
policemen, which she knows how 
to shoot, for Henry had taught 
her in the gallery, and kneeling 
down almost touches it to the 
brute’s forehead as he lies on his 
back tossing his foaming head 
47 


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about. A sharp discharge, and 
blood and foam and smoke are 
dashed again into Henry’s face 
and over his breast ; but his 
hands let go, and he half rises 
and reels. She holds out her 
hands, then loses her balance 
and both come down together, 
half on their knees, but the 
strong arms of policemen sud- 
denly support them from be- 
hind. She recovers first, has 
him in a carriage and is leading 
him out and up the stairway, 
with the driver’s help, who finally 
takes him in arms and depos- 
its him in his own bed. 

He is bitten a little and bleeds 
a good deal, but the doctor says, 
an hour later, the shock has not 

48 


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hurt him, that he can see, and the 
wounds will detain him but a day 
or two. Celeste would not leave 
him, and had not taken her eye 
off from him during the exami- 
nation. The depth of his chest 
and the swelling muscles of his 
forearms, washed now and 
dressed, were a sight to be seen. 

Celeste was kneeling at his 
bedside when he opened his eyes. 

“Do not grieve, Celestine; I 
am not hurt, are you?’’ 

“I was praying and thanking 
God, for you and myself.” 

“You were a brave girl. I 
could not much longer have 
fought the beast.” 

“I know a little you have 
taught me, and am not, I trust, 
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a coward — but it makes me sick 
to think of it. They say he 
weighed a hundred pounds ! 
How fortunate — ^how unfortu- 
nate — you were on the car! You 
saw us get in?’’ 

‘T did not, nor know it was 
you, till I heard your voice, ‘Can 
I do anything?’ as if it were a 
party or a picnic. Then I knew 
it at once.” 

“O, Henry!” 

“What, my dear friend?” 

“I wish you had known in the 
beginning — that it was I.” 

“Indeed, I’d have done exact- 
ly the same.” 

“I would rather have spared 
you, but — I wish— ^that you had 
known.” 


60 


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Ruby Anderand English en- 
ters the family Bible. 



Cl 



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It was a clear case of saving a 
life at least, from injury at the 
mouth of a beast; and the fort- 
night’s visit was indefinitely pro- 
longed. He was just able, when 
it was out, to go about, a fever- 
ish weakness having kept him for 
a day or two indoors. 

“I don’t dare to think,” said 
Celestine, “that the dog was — 

“Pooh! no,” said Henry; “and 
what if he was? I have long 
prayed for just such an oppor- 
tunity.” 

“I am jealous of you both,” 
said Elena next day “I want 
Henry to make a visit to us. I 
was never so terrified in my life; 
I thought of Reuben, and my- 
self, and — and — everybody ^ all 
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in one minute, and that my time 
had come to die.” 

“Not for a good while, I hope, 
for all our sakes,” was Henry 
and Celestine’s reply. 

“It turned me to stone when I 
heard of your courage, my 
dear.” 

“Henry has complimented 
it,” said Celestine. 

“Whom he calls brave must be 
brave, indeed,” said she, and to 
herself, going out, “I never 
knew two such people in my life ; 
they are not made for this 
world.” 

And now Henry is up and 
ready to visit his other friend. 

“You have got to come back,” 
said Celestine. 

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“Indeed!’’ 

“Indeed and indeed, you have 
got to come back,” said she, com- 
ing forward and putting her 
hands on his shoulders as he sat 
still; “or I shall not let you go.” 

And so it was settled, he 
should come back. When she 
insisted, some how or other, there 
was no opposing or contradict- 
ing her. Her own father had 
felt this and submitted to it, a 
something which checked him, a 
voice as of some superior being. 

“What a fine house you’ve 
built, and can well afford, Mr. 
Poland,” said Elena in her par- 
lor, a few days later; “now what 
you want is a wife to put into it.” 

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“There is only one woman, 
Mrs. English, “if I keep my 
present mind, could fill it.” 

“You are too particular, and, 
I believe, a little romantic.” 

“She has taught me to be prac- 
tical; and Henry Munro is 
teaching her romance.” 

“Nobody grudges him.” 

“Not for his own benefit. He 
cannot help it; there is some- 
thing undefined about him, a 
great looming character.” 

“Florence.” 

“Yes, Aunty.” 

“This is my niece from Cali- 
fornia, Mr. Poland, you have 
heard me speak of; her father 
is — 

“A miner. Aunty.” 

55 


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“A miner and a very — 

“Dear papa.’’ 

“What a resemblance I” 

“Such a compliment, Mr. Po- 
land, from a stranger!” 

“Indeed, it is a compliment to 
me, Florence, from a sweet pair 
of rosy lips.” 

“Never mind. Aunty, till I 
get you alone; and I’ll compli- 
ment you more than that. Is 
this the gentleman you were 
speaking to me about yester- 
day?” 

“She means Henry (to Mr. 
P. with a smile). Mr. Poland 
and I were just talking of him.” 

“Well, Aunty, I wouldn’t in- 
terrupt your conversation, nor 
Mr. Poland. Pray resume it.” 

56 


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Such a picture she made, with 
lips partly open, abundant 
brown hair, shading towards 
black, plump as a robin, and a 
little, only a little, below me- 
dium height, blue gray eyes, and 
listening with eyes and ears, 
coming nineteen. 

‘‘He is poor.’’ 

“In what respect?” 

“In purse.” 

“Go on; we are all poor in 
something and can’t help it.” 

“You are a philosopher. Miss 
Florence — I beg your par- 
don — 

“Talcott, Mr. Poland — be- 
ginning to be.” 

“Why, she has answered both 
my questions in one.” 

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“And if you ask them, Mr. 
Poland, what else could I do?’* 

“Ha! ha!” was the answer to 
this, and they laugh heartily all 
round, not regaining their grav- 
ity for some minutes. 

“I started to introduce her.” 

“And I interrupted you. 
Aunty; pray forgive me.” 

“My dear little girl,” was her 
aunty’s reply; “one could for- 
give you anything.” 

“I trust I may not too soon 
give them occasion. Go on, 
please, with your description.” 

“Proud.” 

“True,” said Mr. Poland. 

“And has he something to be 
proud of?” asks the little witch. 

“Yes and no. He has talents; 

58 


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but they are not practical, writes 
beautiful verses and makes 
trips, and has great adventures.” 

“Go on with his character.” 

“He is moody, impatient, — 

“Go on, please.” 

“Sensitive.” 

A little nod said plainly 
enough, “Go on.” 

“Skeptical, or at least uncer- 
tain of his opinions.” 

“Over liberal,” puts in Mr. 
Poland, “believes that Cathohcs 
and Protestants and I don’t 
know who, are all coming to the 
same end, only different ways — 
that the Bible and religion, as it 
is taught us, are all good, but 
are not all religion, and that a 
man’s heart is a great source of 
59 


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it and must be, adding its trib- 
ute as time goes on.” 

“YouVe placed him well, 
Mr. Poland.” 

“As far as you’ve got,” said 
the little one, “I find no fault; 
I believe I’m of the opinion my- 
self.” 

“For a niece, Mr. Poland, she 
can outtalk her Aunty any time 
of day.” 

“Go on now. Aunty; you have 
the floor.” 

“Hypercritical and uncom- 
monly hard to please.” 

“Dear me!’ 

“Brave, generous, courteous, 
magnanimous — 

“Stay, Aunty, if he have all 
those high qualities — 

60 


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“Honest and true.” 

“If he have all those virtues 
you need never name his imper- 
fections.” 

“I must introduce you. You 
would charm him if he would 
only look at you.” 

“If he will not look at me he 
may hsten.” 

“What should you say to 
him?” 

“I should say to him that 
character will one day reach its 
ideal and find its reward, if not 
in this life, then in the next.” 

“Hear her, Mr. Poland; does 
it not sound like what we have 
heard so often from the pulpit, 
from our lamented Dr. Clarke?” 

“It does indeed; but somehow 
61 


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or other, it sounds sweeter.” 

“Now, Mr. Poland, you have 
said so much about your friend, 
talk to me about yourself.” 

“Is’nt she a witch?” 

“And she’s so natural about it. 
Why, my dear, I’m old enough 
enough to be your — 

“Ha! ha!” 

They laugh all round and can- 
not regain their composure; and 
the sentence is left unfinished. 

“Good-morning, Miss Tal- 
cott, I am very happy, indeed, to 
have made your acquaintance.” 

“Good-morning, Mr. Poland, 
and the same to you, sir.” El- 
ena follows him out. 

“Isn’t she?” 

“Isn’t she — a little dear?” 

62 


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“You must call often, Mr. 
Poland; you might do — 

“Joking aside, Mrs. English, 
I have told you my mind. There 
is one woman sails ever above 
me, like a white cloud.’’ 

“And as unapproachable.” 

“It may be true.” 

“You have learned to be prac- 
tical, you were just telling me. 
Now, to be practical — 

“Perhaps you are right; you 
need say no more. I must go by 
myself and think — but thinking 
doesn’t do it. I have thought it 
all out. I am in love, and the 
object of my affections is her- 
self in love with Henry Mun- 
ro.” 

“He about as good as saved 
her life. 


63 


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And saved her property/' 
Elena goes on, but he inter- 
rupts. 

“You know and I know she 
was in love with him long before 
that." 

“When he was poor, sick, and 
discouraged." 

“As he is now; and he need 
not be any one of those things." 

“What is your theory of such 
cases?" 

“I haven’t any, unless it be 
the power of Nature, which 
great natures feel to be most ir- 
resistible." 

“What was there ever in Fan- 
nie Tiverton?" 

“I’ll tell you what there was," 
said he; “Henry has glaring 

64 


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faults of character and cannot 
overcome them. She was his op- 
posite, however selfish and in- 
sincere. He wants to please ; 
and she pleased him and every- 
body, at least strangers and 
those who did not know her too 
well. I do not speak of her as 
she is now. She could hardly 
please anybody now — with her 
waist — why bless me — and three 
chins.’' 

“Yet he is unchanged.” 

“He is unchangeable and un- 
satisfied.” 

“Celestine is too good for 
him.” 

“He would be the first to tell 
you that,” said Poland, “if, in- 
deed, he has not had occasion to 
66 


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tell her already. One cannot be 
jealous of such a man. Some- 
times I think, however, I’ll 
make a bold stroke, and cut, if 
possible, the Gordian knot and 
bring the parties to an explana- 
tion!” 

“You three, you mean.” 

“I do. If they two wed, I’m 
satisfied. Otherwise, by right, 
she should take me.” 

“How will it do to introduce 
him to my niece.” 

“Little Miss here? You have 
my consent. She is worth a 
dozen Fannie Tivertons in her 
own right.” 

“In every respect.” 

“In every respect. But my 
heart misgives me. We shall 
66 


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find we are dealing with strong- 
er natures than we know any- 
thing about. ’’ 

“Mr. Jack!’’ 

“I mean it. I know you are 
a dear, as good as gold; and no 
one knows it better, but your 
husband, than your friends.” 

“I have had to eat more flat- 
tery today — 

“That arch little niece is a 
flatterer; but I am telling you 
solid truth.” 

“Solid!” says Mrs. E., survey- 
ing herself, “a hundred and six- 
ty pounds — 

“Of gold.” 

“It is pleasant, my dear, to 
have friends, and be well 
thought of,” she says to her 
niece. 


67 


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“It is a pleasure you have, 
Aunty, every day in the week. 
You had a long argument in 
the entry.” 

“He is in love, Flossie.” 

“And with whom?” 

“Celestine.” 

“Dear me, the friend you 
were telling me about. I must 
see her, to see what she is made 
of. And she?” 

“Well, she — but chicky, look 
quick!” 

“To whom were you bow- 
ing?” 

“That was Henry Munro.” 

“And he didn’t come in?” 

“He will if I send for him; 
otherwise his visits are too infre- 
quent.” 

68 


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“I didn’t see him.” 

“You looked the wrong way; 
he was going up street on the 
other side ; but you shall see him, 
Flossie.” 

“You seem to have a very Se- 
lect Circle, Aunty, of acquaint- 
ance. Do they all think as much 
of you as Mr. Poland?” 

“Jack Poland? Why?” 

“I overheard the words, ‘solid 
gold’.” 

“You little witch. You shall 
be shut up in a gilt cage, and 
only shown a little while at a 
time.” 

“I can’t sing enough to fill a 
cage.” 

“You can talk like Poll P.” 

The doorbell rings and a lady 

69 


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carefully dressed, with a pure, 
sweet face, and a cloud of gold- 
en hair, Celestine, in short, is 
ushered in and gently and 
quietly introduced. 

“Celestine, my love, my little 
niece, Flossie.” 

“Talcott,” says she. 

“You very much resemble 
your aunt, my dear; I have oft- 
en heard her speak of you.” 

“Not ‘solid gold’,” said Flos- 
sie, under a reproving glance 
from her aunt, “I am only flesh 
and blood; but you,” she went 
on, “have a crown of gold, flne 
spun, and bringing in with it 
the sunlight.” 

“She is a flatterer, Celestine; 
she flatters me.” 

70 


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‘‘My little dear,” said Celes- 
tine, “I am sure you mean well, 
and want to be kind to your 
Aunty’s friends.” 

“You are unhappy.” Mrs. 

^ Elena has excused herself a 

minute. 

“Not very, my chick.” 

“That is just what Aunty 
calls me. Should you not like 
to look at my book of photo- 
graphs of friends and school- 
mates in California?” 

“Very much indeed.” As 
Flossie goes after it, just as 
Elena returns, she murmurs to 
herself. “No wonder about Mr. 
Poland. I am in love with her 
already, myself.” 

Lunch is announced; and the 
71 


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hostess remarks in assigning 
Celestine the place of honor, 
“How much, my dear, you look 
like your mother!” 

A gold locket is unclasped 
that hangs at her neck, and Ce- 
lestine shows the portrait of a 
lady to the guest from Califor- 
nia. 

“How elegant and noble!” is 
the exclamation; “but there is 
another side to this locket.” 

Celestine has replaced it with 
a smile. “Another dear friend.” 

“Is he dead?” asks the young 
girl, getting the sex by a quick 
intuition. 

“No, my dear,” said Celes- 
tine; and their attention became 
absorbed immediately, to all ap- 

72 


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pearances, by the pate de foies 
gras. 

“Don’t ever pit me against 
her,” she says when Celestine 
has taken her leave. I am a 
child beside her. She is perfect.” 

“I’ll pit you, my dear, against 
the original of her locket.” 

“Nothing unfair. Aunty, and 
all above board.” 

“Nothing unfair. Only act 
yourself and never fear. I only 
want everybody to be happy.” 

“Why Aunty, I’m happy all 
the time; and I know you are.” 

“I believe I am.” 

It was an evening party at 
Mrs. Elena’s and succeeded bet- 
ter than most evening parties, in 
that every one present became 
73 


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acquainted with every one else. 
There was the usual rattle and 
a good supper; but somehow, as 
they went to bed late, and Flos- 
sie threw her arms about Elena’s 
neck with a good-night kiss, 
the feeling of both found voice 
in her remark, “I’d rather have a 
cosy chat in your parlor or a 
walk round the square with a 
friend or two, than to stand up 
seventeen hours at a reception, 
talking all the time — and saying 
nothing.” They were children 
of Nature, although Mrs. E. 
was a child no longer. 

Mr. Munro, of course, had to 
call; and Flossie — for Elena 
was sick or thought she was — 
had a fair set at him. She was 
74 


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not a woman, however a child, 
to waste words or opportunities. 

“I have made many striking 
acquaintances; but Celestine is 
the finest woman I ever saw.” 

“She is indeed a fine woman.” 

“You do not see her as I see 
her ; if I were a man I should be 
over head and ears in love with 
her. I am in love with her, in- 
deed, as I am. 

I would have her portrait in 
my locket. Whom has she got 
in hers?” 

“Her mother’s.” 

“Whose else?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Then I’d find out. Mr. 
Munro, I want instantly a son- 
net acrostic, for my own name. 

76 


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They say you can do it,; and 
here is paper.” She holds him 
out a block of dainty sheets with 
a monogram engraved on them, 
F. T. 

“But Florence Talcott is a 
letter too long, fifteen; and a 
sonnet can have but fourteen 
lines to it.” 

“Then make it Flossie,” said 
she with a snap and a bright lit- 
tle smile, putting the paper into 
his fingers. He resisted no 
longer, but took the pencil and 
with steady hand began: 

“Flow gently, thou sweet 
burden of my song, 

“Like — and then he wrote 
the initial letters straight down 
the page, and went at the task, 
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1 


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smilingly superintended, like a 
machine, and had it finished in 
ten minutes. 

“They told me true,” said the 
little witch. “I did not believe 
any one could have done it.” 
And having thus gained his con- 
fidence, she sat beside him and 
plied him, and smiled on him, 
and let him talk — and he did 
talk and unburdened himself to 
her till it grew dark. He was 
quite frank. “I don’t know 
when,” said he, “I have had such 
a pleasant hour.” 

“Please come again,” was all 
she said. 

“He didn’t know when he 
had such a pleasant hour. He is 
a kind, good man,” said Flossie 
77 


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to her aunt ; but why they 
laughed, such a ringing laugh as 
the little girl had, and her aunt 
echoed, well — it was two hours. 

“What is all this high racket 
about, my children?’’ said Reu- 
ben, just coming in. 

“It is at my expense, dear 
uncle, and Henry Munro’s,” 
said the little pet. Explanations 
followed, and they all laughed 
again. 

“You are the first woman ever 
did draw him out, since one of 
old.” 

“Why, uncle, I am only a lit- 
tle chick.” 

“You know more, all the 
same, than we old birds.” 

A pout followed across the 

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table, which was happily made 
up. 

They asked Henry Munro to 
ride out with them in a two- 
seated buggy and he drove the 
horses while Elena sat behind. 
Flossie’s get-up was perfectly 
fascinating, and she herself was 
full of hfe, almost bounding out 
of her seat beside Mr. Henry, to 
give emphasis to her speeches, 
turning to her aunt, and quite 
astonishing and delighting them 
both. Reserve, indeed, was cast 
to the winds. He had passed 
them some flowers, and hers had 
been a sprig of heliotrope, 
which she had fastened at her 
breast. “Heliotrope means,” 

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she said, half turning and speak- 
ing to her aunt, with a sudden 
spring forward, “heliotrope 
means, I love you!* The horses 
suddenly hesitated at something 
in front of them, and Florence 
would have gone over, losing her 
balance, into the road, but the 
strong arm had suddenly seized 
her, and held her for a moment 
to his breast. Then she got her 
breath and sat down quite still; 
and Mrs. Elena said nothing. 
“You are not hurt?’’ he asked, 
knowing very well that she was 
not. “Not a bit.” She was a lit- 
tle wee bit frightened, was very 
demure the rest of the way, and 
thanked him very kindly and 
properly, and her aunt, at the 


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end of it for her drive. 

“I didn’t know, Aunty,” she 
said, “why we shouldn’t have a 
good time; I wouldn’t trifle with 
him for the world.” 

“I don’t know any one that 
wouldn’t have a good time with 
you,” was the reply; “as to tri- 
fling with him, I only wish — I 
mean, I am afraid you will not 
have a chance.” 

“We did have a good time.” 

“That we did, my dear.” 

It was a bright cavalcade that 
clattered up the avenue a few 
days later, Celestine first, on a 
bounding chestnut, erect and 
slight, with such a high 
courage, a golden vision, Avith 
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a touch of red which was 
all they wanted on her fair 
cheeks, and a new light of 
joy in her eye. Henry 
beside her, a neck behind, was 
holding down Testy, the black 
mare, whose spring was as true 
and steady as a machine, his 
toes and his elbows sticking out 
a little too much, but his body a 
part, to all intents, of the beast. 
Florence, behind, with her 
beaver hard down over her fore- 
head, and her cheeks, if one 
could find any fault with them, a 
little too red, all black and red, 
and a wicked look in her eye, 
was all in a bunch on the black 
Topsy, a dainty pony. The ex- 
hibition was not becoming to her ; 

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as she did not need any one to 
tell her. Jack Poland, beside 
her, rode his own horse, an easy 
loper, with conscious grace. 
Mrs. Elena behind, a good horse- 
woman, on Betsy, a stout mare 
which caught her every word, 
was first beside Florence and 
then next Jack. “Never mind 
me,” said she to him; “take good 
care of Flossie. I know old Bet. 
Don’t we, Betsey?” as the mare 
pricked up her ears. As she fell 
behind Flossie the black coach- 
man on a lean gray, with a dry 
trot, made up the square of two 
by three. 

They came back through the 
space by the Providence Depot. 
The crowd opened before them. 

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The horse cars were passing, 
when suddenly a wild cry rose 
and a limp figure, a little fruit 
vender, was lying helpless be- 
side the track. Celestine was on 
the ground in an instant. 
“Stand, Beauty,” said she, 
throwing the bridle upon the 
horse’s neck; and the next in- 
stant she was bearing the poor lit- 
tle shrieking body like an angel 
in her spotless arms, a heavenly 
pity in her blue eyes and firm 
set lips, to the sidewalk. Henry 
had wheeled at the same instant 
and was out of sight. Florence 
was palpitating with excitement, 
holding her purse in her plump 
hand. Before the four could re- 
cover themselves. Celeste had 


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mounted, unaided, her loyal 
horse, which had not stirred a 
foot since she had commanded 
him, and Henry had brought a 
doctor and put the poor boy in a 
place to be cared for, and re- 
mounted beside her, and the 
square, reformed, was leaving 
the street. “IVe done it,” said 
Florence to Elena as they dis- 
mounted. She had emptied her 
pocket-book. “IVe given the 
gold piece that Will gave me to 
remember him by, an old Eng- 
lish guinea. It serves me just 
right. I ought not to have taken 
it, and will write him and tell 
him.” 

“John can redeem it,” said 
Mrs. English, taking from her 
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pocket a ten-dollar bill; would 
any one know it?” 

“It was six-sided; but no, 
never mind; there is an end to 
it.” 


“I cannot see why he does not 
appreciate Celestine.” They 
were speaking of Henry, Mrs. 
English to Reuben. 

“It is the animal that draws 
him. Fanny had it; and Celes- 
tine is too spiritual.” 

“But Henry is such a noble 
fellow.” 

“He is not conscious of it. It 
is Nature uniting body and soul. 
Is he not a fine specimen of phys- 
ical manhood?” 

“If he were only bright and 


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ruddy like you.” 

“He’d be bright enough if 
only properly mated. Ruddy 
like me! Color is nothing! he 
could throw me over his head.” 

“He ought to like Flossie.” 

“I think he does, if it were not 
for his fate, his own predeter- 
mination.” 

“He complimented Celeste. 
I heard him say, as he handed 
her down, that she looked like a 
picture.” 

“And what did she say?” 

“She only smiled, a sweet, 
glad smile that would have 
turned an angel.” 

“How did Florence enjoy the 
ride, and Mr. Poland?” 

“I heard her say that she knew 
87 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


her hair and she herself was all in 
a muss; and indeed it was true. 
She has been half an hour ar- 
ranging herself.’’ 

“How did you like Mr. Po- 
land, Flossie?” he asks, as she 
comes down to dinner. 

“An old poke I Uncle, I am 
hungry. I’ve rubbed the skin 
off,” she whispers to Elena, 
measuring the space on the palm 
of her hand, Elena has a rem- 
edy; but she won’t listen. 
“Who’ll have beans?” she asks; 
and for half an hour they are 
jolly together. She makes a 
speech over the Roman punch, 
cackles like a hen, as the maca- 
roons are brought in, and is wild 
with fun as Mr. Munro is an- 
88 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


nounced, and comes in with an 
old gold piece in his hand. Her 
setting and surroundings give 
her every advantage, and he 
stands fixed with admiration and 
does not come forward till she 
addresses him. 

“You need not have taken the 
trouble to return it.” 

“I thought, perhaps, it might 
be a keepsake.” 

“It was.” 

“And do you so lightly esteem 
a keepsake?” 

His eyes were on her, and his 
soul, as seldom, was shining 
through them. She was caught 
and winced. The table was si- 
lent. He was waiting her an- 
swer. She was cornered, but got 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


out of it. She drew a little 
breath between half-set teeth, 
looking him straight in the eye. 

“Yes, Sir,” she answered. He 
was unbrushed and turned away, 
excusing himself, when she asked 
him what he had paid for it. 

“Don’t mention it,” was his 
reply. 

“It’s of no use,” said Elena as 
he went out, “to speak to him 
about money.” 

“I rather like him,” said the 
girl coolly, “he means well; but 
he needs somebody to manage 
him. I wish that guinea was 
hung round — 

“Why, Flossie!” 

“Look out, Flossie, what you 
are saying,” puts in the husband. 

90 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“He is suspicious,” Reuben 
goes on. 

“He has been taught it,” says 
Elena. 

“He has no reason to suspect 
mef' 

“I told you,” said Elena, “that 
he had faults ; and you would not 
let me enumerate them.” 

“You held up the sun and 
wanted my eyes to perceive the 
spots. Murder will out. That 
piece goes back to William to- 
night and will get me into no 
more scrapes.” 

“Unless with Will.” 

She was whistling a bird note 
which is often heard about night- 
fall in rather wet places, and has 
given a name to the bird. 

91 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Flossie means well,” said 
Uncle and Aunt, repeating the 
words over to each other with 
half -approving side glances at 
her — “but — 

“She is too bewitching.” 

“She only tries,” said Flossie, 
“to be agreeable.” 

“She doesn’t need to try,” was 
her uncle’s reply, looking at her; 
and his wife caught it and looked 
— “She is that without trying.” 

“I was thinking what he said 
to me,” Flossie went on, “in that 
two hours’ talk, ‘A friend’s real 
worth is not always appreciated’ 
— by everybody, he ought to 
have added.” 

“By the right one.” 

“That’s what I mean.” 

92 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Good-by, Mr. M.,” added the 
little beauty, kissing her hand to 
the vacant doorway. 

“I think William’s chance,” 
said the husband, “is pretty 
good. He is very shrewd; he 
gives her rein, but he never lets 
go his hold on her.” 

“He knows too much,” said 
his wife, “to follow her East.” 

“He is young.” 

“He’s of age, just two years 
older than she.” 

“Not poor.” 

“On the contrary.” And they 
looked about them and at one an- 
other and smiled. 

“That’s where the romance 
comes in,” added the husband. 

93 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Then we never had much.” 

“We have what we want. We 
love one another.” 

“Romance, sometimes, my 
dear,” as she passed him and 
kissed him, “may mean disap- 
pointment.” 

“It always does, I think,” was 
his reply. 


The Question came up in the 
Select Circle, as hard questions 
will (come up once and again), 
why Fannie had chosen the man 
she had chosen. 

He had thirty thousand. 

“I should want more than 
that,” Flossie said reflectively, 
“for my left little toe.” 

94 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


Had a small foot (she had 
told Elena). “Two,” spoke up 
Poland, “just small enough {he 
had two) for so small a figure 
of a man.” 

“He was reputable enough,” 
said Celestine — “Who isn’t?” 
Reuben broke in; and his wife 
added, “Had never done any- 
body any good or harm.” 

“And a good dancer,” from 
Tommy.” 

But Fannie nee Tiverton 
didn’t dance. 

“Why didn’t you try for 
her?” put in Poland, and Celes- 
tine smiled as Tommy got up 
with the remark, “It may not be 
too late!” and started to go. 
If Celestine didn’t nobody did. 

95 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“While there is life/’ she half 
whispered, echoing his answer — 
and they all rose as she left the 
room. “Great goodness!” said 
Florence — “Look out Flos- 
sie,” said Reuben, and Elena, 
“Flossie! what you are saying,” 
who was fain to be content, as 
she sat down again, with the 
conjecture, which nobody chal- 
lenged, that Henry knew more 
than the accepted suitor about 
his own, the said suitor’s, par- 
ticular trade. 

“Henry told me himself, at a 
philosophical tiffin” (to which 
word Henry had become ad- 
dicted, having brought it back 
with him from Calcutta), Reu- 
ben repeated, “that our race 

96 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


division into mankind and wo- 
mankind, although correct in in- 
dividual cases, was defective. 
He knew of a wider classifica- 
tion: into Mankind and Woman- 
unkind; into Manunkind and 
Womankind.” 

The Wit was too dry and 
strong for the circle. Nobody 
laughed. Elena dared look at 
only her husband, he looking at* 
her, the others afar; and the dis- 
cussion stopped like a duck on 
the smooth surface of Lone 
River when, with its mate sit- 
ting next it unconscious, its head 
is shot off. 

“There is one thing,” said 
Florence to Mr. Munro, who had 
97 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


come to call before her depart- 
ure, the next Monday, “in which 
I believe you misjudge me; but I 
cannot explain it worth a cent.” 

He was dumb; but his eyes 
opened with a great wonder. 

“But another thing I will tell 
you, Mr. Poland has asked leave 
to write to me; and I have told 
him yes, occasionally, so long as 
he confines himself for the pres- 
ent, to general topics and mat- 
ters of interest to the Select Cir- 
cle.” 

“A pretty broad permission.” 

And then she blushed and had 
nothing to say. “I meant — 
she started. 

“You meant right; I am sure, 
and always have.” 

98 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“I thank you, Mr. Munro,” 
she answered, and they shook 
hands. “If you should ever come 
to California — 

“I should be very happy,” said 
he, as he went out. 

“How do you like my niece?” 
asked Mrs. Elena in the entry. 

“A sweet little woman. She 
will make somebody very hap- 

py-" 

“She might have made you.” 

And he went off in a kind of 
a daze. 

“He is a good man,” said 
Florence, “and I could like him, 
if he would let me, but very pe- 
culiar.” 

“What did I tell you?” 

99 


A. of c. 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Imagination is all very well, 
and I have a share of it myself ; 
but somehow, when it comes 
down to the realities — 

“Of every day life — 

“You want some one you can 
get along with.” 

“He is not very brilliant,” 
Flossie added, “but deep.” 

“A great, rough, sharp-edged, 
uncut diamond.” 

“Which nothing but a dia- 
mond ever will polish.” 
“Celestine.” 

“Is a sapphire — 

“For me,” she added, “I am 
brought out, all there is to me, 
and show to advantage; I shall 
never be any brighter. I would 
give something, though, to recall 
100 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


my answer when he looked at me 
once with his heart in his eyes, 
you remember the day, when he 
wanted to know if I didn’t value 
a keepsake.” 

“What would you have said?” 

“That depends entirely on 
whom it came from.” 

“He shall have your answer.” 

“On your own responsibility. 
What did you tell him in the 
entry?” 

“That you would make him 
happy.” 

“My father would thank you.” 

“You might thank me your- 
self, my dear; I don’t keep open 
house and bring couples together 
to pass the time. Look at me and 
Reuben — ” 


101 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Well/’ said she, with a sigh, 
“the Lord knows you mean well, 
and are a dear Aunty; but I feel 
it within me, I am not large 
enough for him.” 

“And Celestine?” 

“Is not long lived. He will 
live to be old, and his old love. 
Look at his frame; and did you 
not notice her in church? Those 
who sit down tall and stand up 
short, they say — 

“Why, yes, my dear; how ob- 
serving you are ! But here comes 
Tommy. You shall have the 
parlor, Mr. Bellows, to bid Miss 
Talcott good-by.” 

“I thank you, Mrs. English.’^ 

Munro is literary editor, with 
102 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


a small salary, of a leading daily. 
It has not been stated; but the 
reader must know that he had 
some way of earning a living. 

Florence at the seaside has met 
Mrs. Twitchell, Fanny, once 
Tiverton, and been introduced, 
and is sitting beside her at din- 
ner. 

“Have you been in Boston, 
Miss Talcott?’' 

“Once only, a quiet visit to my 
relatives, last month.” 

“Were you asked to the gov- 
ernor’s reception?” 

“We were not.” 

Mrs. Fanny in a minute had 
named over a dozen Boston peo- 
ple of society and inquired if she 
knew them. 


103 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“I had heard several of the 
names you mention.” 

“How sweet you are looking I” 
she says, taking another tack. 

“It is my duty to my friends,” 
said Flossie, “to look as well as I 
can.” 

“I think you find it also a 
pleasure, thinking of con- 
quests, past and future.” 

“I want to be happy, and 
make my friends so. One who 
conquered the world was still un- 
happy.” 

“The man you are speaking of 
was of my opinion; for he sighed 
for something more to conquer. 
Position, society, is what we live 
for. Do you know, my dear,” 
said Fanny, half leaning over 
104 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


her — her eyes too were gray blue 
and something swam in them 
that Florence felt near her, but 
was unaccustomed to — “I was 
once myself as pretty as you.” 
She was sitting much higher, cor- 
seted tight; but her wrists told 
the story, her heavy cheeks and 
long-lobed ears. 

“You were more imposing.” 

A gratified smile sat on her 
face as she turned to look full at 
Florence. 

“Did you see Mrs. English, 
Mrs. Reu — 

“She is my aunt.” 

The elder woman looked at 
her now with a fixed smile which 
told nothing but was one long 
question, no sign of emotion, a 

105 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


look that seemed to be reading 
her through ; and Florence 
braved it without answering fur- 
ther, but was getting redder and 
redder under it with a kind of in- 
dignation at herself, till Mrs. 
Fannie with a conscious air of 
self -composure rose and slowly 
sailed down the aisle and past 
the obsequious proprietor at the 
entrance. 

Florence draws a long breath, 
“I am no match forthatwoman,” 
to herself. 

They sat there next day and 
Mrs. T. had not spoken till with- 
out warning, “I hope Mrs. Reu- 
ben does not think unkindly of 
me.” 

“If that is a question, I will 
answer it with another,” said the 
106 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


little one. The sphinx look came 
again into the widow’s eyes, but 
she waited patiently, all atten- 
tion. 

“Were you ever a friend of 
Henry Munro?” 

The sphinx waited, half 
smiled, with a deprecating look, 
and answered, “Have you any 
right to ask?” 

The two women turned and 
rose together; and, for a wonder, 
it was hard to see which was the 
taller, only Mrs. Fanny had evi- 
dently very high heels. Which 
was the redder was the next 
question, for a moment. Flor- 
ence, at first, might have taken 
the premium, but the widow’s 
blush was the more fixed. 

107 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“We shall meet again,” said 
she, smiling graciously, “you 
must come to see me in my 
room.” 

“I leave to-day; you are very 
kind,” and as Mrs. T. went un- 
concernedly smiling past her 
smiling acquaintances of escorts 
and dowagers, the wicked look 
came again into the little one’s 
eyes, as she said to herself, “I 
think that shot told.” 

“She has all his depth (in her 
own room) and matches him 
well — but it is of a different 
kind. What am I, indeed, be- 
tween two such people? Only a 
child. I just know enough to 
tell the truth.” 

“And that, indeed, is a great 
deal.” 


108 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Why, Papa!” said she. 

“I couldn’t come earlier.” 

“I will go down with you 
again to dinner.” 

“And read this letter from 
your Aunt Elena.” 

“Do you like Mrs. Twitchell?” 
writes Mrs. Elena. 

“One can’t dislike her; but 
that look that she gives one, it 
is like what you read about — she 
almost gloats over you — it seems 
as if I were sitting beside some 
man. I wouldn’t be like her, 
but I don’t know, I don’t want 
to be wicked — but I should just 
hke to have Henry at my feet 
one minute.” 

“He doesn’t like that in her, 
you foolish child,” was the writ- 
109 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


ten answer; “he owned to Reu- 
ben. But he says it is Nature, 
harms nobody, not him certainly, 
and she can’t help it; he had to 
excuse it. But that, my dear, 
was long ago, when Reuben and 
he were sleeping together, at our 
country seat, before we were 
married, the night of the party.” 

“She should take exercise.” 

“I know a little girl that too 
much horseback didn’t agree 
with.” 

“She is no fool.” 

“Tut ; you can’t teach her any- 
thing.” 

“There is one other thing.” 

“I know; that is disagreeable 
at times.” 


no 

















A SELECT CIRCLE. 


Life is too short for story tell- 
ing. What people say to each 
other is of most importance ; and 
many things connected with this 
history have been necessarily left 
out. A letter came to Mr. Mun- 
ro from California. 

“My dear friend, 

I want you for an usher at 
my wedding. You have no ex- 
cuse; don’t make any. 

Yours, 

F. Talcott.” 
They went on in the Presi- 
dent’s car the whole way, a de- 
lightful party, and Mrs. Fanny 
Twitched was not invited. 

“Henry,” said Florence, the 
night before the wedding, “I 
can talk much plainer to you in 
115 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


my own home. You would not 
have me; and as Mr. Poland and 
I are going to Boston, I shall 
punish you by keeping you 
away. Father wants a man 
(“that’s what I mean,” said she) , 
a manager. Since poor Mother 
died I have been almost a part- 
ner with him; and he asked me 
the other day, ‘Whom do you 
know who would take hold with 
me and help me keep this busi- 
ness together? stay on the 
place? He must be brave, firm, 
kind to the men, with a fair 
knowledge of men and things, 
honest, unapproachable, and 
self-centred. There are dark 
days and hours in this business 
he must live through. ‘Father,’ I 
116 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


answered, ‘I know just one man 
that you could hire of that de- 
scription.’ And then I asked, for 
I am a little woman of business, 
‘how much would you pay him 
to fill the bill?’ ‘If he were not 
worth ten thousand a year,’ said 
Father, ‘he would not be worth 
having ; my interests are too 
large to be entrusted to an ap- 
prentice.’ I thought if a news- 
paper office and travel about the 
world had not given you a fair 
knowledge of men and things 
nothing would, and I told him 
your character, and I knew it, 
was solid as a rock. There, Mr. 
Henry, I can’t say more. Your 
office don’t give you a tenth part 
of that, nor is there anything or 
117 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


anybody to detain you in Boston. 
And if I am too blunt or have 
injured the grammar, you must 
forgive me.” 

He took the place, and he said 
he didn’t know how to tell his 
gratitude (for once short of 
words) . 

“I don’t want all gratitude,” 
said she, her voice suddenly deep 
and low. He looked at her in 
wonder, but she looked up 
bright — not a word had been 
spoken, as their eyes met; and 
the sweet little girl looked him 
straight in the face and said, “I 
want all my friends, everybody 
I know, to be happy, and to 
make them so as far as I can.” 

“All the people you know are 
your friends.” 

118 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Do you remember what you 
once said to me, in what you were 
pleased to call a pleasant hour, 
that — 

“I remember well.” 

“ ‘A friend’s real worth is not 
always appreciated’ — by every- 
body, you should have added. I 
want to be appreciated by every- 
body, there! but particularly by 
you. Are you satisfied?” 

Poland came in and waited. 
She kept him waiting till she 
got her answer — He looked 
straight at her. She had him 
now cornered, and he winced; 
but his frame heaved and a great 
light broke out of his eyes, that 
of a true heart. ‘Wo,” he said, 
bravely; “not half satisfied, with 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


myself, I have been moping 
and brooding my life away, bur- 
dening my friends, neglecting 
the faculties, even the opportu- 
nities I possessed, while you 
have gone up and down the 
world doing good.” Then Po- 
land stepped forward and the 
warmest congratulations were 
renewed. 

The mail had come in, the fol- 
lowing morning, with Florence 
and Elena in the library. “My 
own initials, ‘F. T.,’ for Mr. 
Munro,” said she with surprise. 
Mrs. English snatched the let- 
ter. “He shall not have it. It is 
Fanny Tiverton’s hand.” Flos- 
sie stamped her little foot, and 
120 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


took it suddenly from her friend. 
“Does she dare follow him 
here?” 

“She’s a professor at gossip, 
and knows everything before it 
happens, acquaintances every- 
where, knows his good fortune 
or has guessed it. She is a sharp 
woman, as shrewd as a thistle. I 
wonder she didn’t come on the 
train.” 

“I am going upstairs,” added 
Mrs. Elena. “I know nothing. 
I shall never speak of that letter 
again. But if I were you, I 
wouldn’t deliver it. I’d acci- 
dentally — 

“I had my plans,” murmured 
Flossie, “for his future; but this 
woman (she was alone) means 
him no good; I’m sure we — 
121 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


(holding the letter by the corner 
between thumb and finger as if 
afraid of it). A bright fire 
burned temptingly before her; 
but a form had come in and 
caught the last words beginning 
'"this woman/" She turned sud- 
denly and confronted Henry. 

“You have just saved me 
from a temptation.” 

“I will read it with you; you 
deserve my utmost confidence.” 

It was folded, stamped, ad- 
dressed, with the last touch of 
neatness and the newest f angled 
etiquette of fine society. 

“My dear friend. 

Let me also rejoice in your 
great joy. 

Sincerely yours, 

Fanny Tiverton Twitchell.” 

122 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


There was not another word. 
Henry and she looked at one an- 
other in astonishment. “She 
thinks I am going to marry 
you,” he found breath to say. 

“She thinks no such thing,” 
said the little girl, drawing her- 
self up to her full height. “Mr. 
Munro, do you not understand 
that woman yet? Do you not 
know her for the most artful 
God ever made? She pretends 
to think what she writes is true. 
She knows she holds you in her 
chain. She knows your good 
fortune and she thinks perhaps 
to share it now or be ready to 
share it by and by. How do I 
know? She takes the Saturday 
Evening Gazette and said at 

123 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


the table in my hearing she 
reads it regularly — and our 
wedding party was mentioned 
in the last number.” 

“Flossie,” said he kindly, 
“what an observing little body 
you are. I remember now that 
was her old habit.” 

“Fudge!” said she, “don’t you 
see the letter is equivocal? She 
could never be suspected of not 
being up in social news. That is 
her hand in that letter; she has 
reached it out and put it upon 
you.” 

“Florence!” said he in won- 
der; “you are the smartest little 
woman I ever knew; it is every 
word true, her hand, indeed, — 
and I can’t help it.” 

124 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“It is art,” said Florence; 
“read the epistle 1 I warrant she 
got some one to compose it for 
her.” 

“Art,” said he musing, — “hand 
and, art, heart, how much dif- 
ference an aspirate may make. 
I wish it had been, indeed, her 
heart.” He looked up. She had 
left him alone and he felt he had 
deserved it, took the missive and 
let it slowly fall into the fire. 

When they met in the passage 
he looked her steadily in the eye 
and never said one word, and she 
gave a little nod with lips set 
firm. 

“He destroyed it” — ^to Elena. 

“How do you know?” 

“I knew by his eye; and there 

125 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


was a little smell of burning wax 
about the grate. It was the only 
letter in the mail that was sealed 
with wax, you know.” 

“Florence Talcott Poland (so 
soon to be) , you have the sharp- 
est perceptions of any woman, 
married or single, I ever knew. 
Have you a streak of the Abor- 
igine in you?” 

“You must ask Father. On 
the mother’s side, I am clear 
white like you. My father has 
had me at his mines, you know; 
and pretty much all over Cali- 
fornia when I was little. You 
never saw my snakes!” 

“Sna— akes!” 

“They are not like some; they 
are in glass, and can’t get out.” 

“For heaven’s sake!” 

126 


A SELECT CIECLE. 


Seed time and harvest have 
come and gone. 

The scene changes now to 
Mrs. Reuben’s house again on 
the tenth anniversary of her 
wedding. An evening party has 
assembled, and Henry Munro 
and Fanny Twitchell are among 
the guests. Insensibly, within 
half an hour, they drifted to- 
gether. 

He held out his hand. The 
other people seemed to fade out 
of sight. They were in a corner 
by themselves. 

“Fannie,” said he, “shall we 
try to close the gap of years?” 

127 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“I am too old,” she said 
hoarsely. 

“Not so old as I am by two 
years.” 

“Lacking a month, Henry, 
you wanted children — I am too 
old.” 

“I can’t help that, and nobody 
knows — 

She was suddenly still as if 
unconscious of his presence, her 
perfect composure coming all 
back to her, but repeating me- 
chanically in a low voice, which 
she knew would reach his quick- 
ened ears — “AND AM NOT 
WORTHY”— she looked in his 
eye, smooth, statuesque, unruf- 
fled, although heavy of feature, 
solemn, serious, and for once in 
128 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


earnest, perfectly balanced and 
yet recognizing his masterdom 
and height above her; she looked 
up at him as one might look at a 
mountain, and added — “OF A 
GREAT LOVE.” 

“I can’t help that, either,” was 
his reply. 

Then came the day after. 

“Celestine.” 

“Tommy.” 

“We are all there are left.” 

“Do you think, Tommy, after 
so long acquaintance — 

“I never — 

“I know it. Tommy, just what 
you would say. You were too 
true to me. I did think at one 
time I never could carry — ^but 

129 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


one other image — (she takes her 
chain off) — in this locket; but he 
never knew it. You are the first 
person who ever has seen it. My 
mother is smiling — if you care 
you can change it.” (She opens 
the locket.) 


“And he never saw it?” 

“No one knew I had it but 
little Flossie, who fathomed my 
secret without seeing it opened.” 

“When it comes to pure intel- 
lect, she’s got it.” 

“And pure heart with it.” 

130 


A SELECT CIRCLE. 


“Did you ever?” the partici- 
pants said to one another; and 
everybody pronounced Mrs. 
Reuben’s party a complete suc- 
cess. Mrs. Poland, indeed, put 
it to vote, the second day after, 
in the same spot, to the assem- 
bled members, to amend the 
name of their institution by 
striking out select, and mak- 
ing it read a complete circle, 
which was carried unanimously 
amid a general uproar of cheers 
and laughter. “It was not 
complete,” said Poland, “till you 
came into it,” and she gave him 
a little twist of her chin sideways 
and glance of her eye. The rest 
applauded. And then they 
hugged and kissed her all round. 

131 


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There are five periods, on 
which, of course, prose rhythm 
depends ; two ascending, two 
descending, one concluding pe- 
riod, which ought to be num- 
bered ooooo. The first, next 
page, is the first ascending; the 
second, the first descending; the 
third, the concluding. Why? Be- 
cause it is 25 (a multiple of 5) 
-syllabic. — Pierce's rhetoric 
(unpublished) . 

Every ^ is an answer to a 
question, that above being 

wir? 


From ''The Life-Romance of 
An Algebraist by the same 
author, 

“My design on the cover, 
with its regular lines and heart- 
like curves, symbolizes the flow- 
er of Love and Truth. The 
fruit developed at the centre 
(by continuing the lines) is a 
star, the emblem of Unchange.” 


The back die shows matched 
hearts; the wedges are circum- 
stances, unable to force them 
apart, joined through this his- 
tory in their crown. 

In the monogram under, also 
octuple, WITH is understood, 
SiivADESIGNS AND SONGS 
(S used four times) reads plain 
enough. 




Tierce, and parry, and carte* 



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Has been bevelled afresh on a stone. 




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Carte, and parry, and tierce. 
Tierce, and parry, and carte. 

Into the younger' s forehead I pierce. 
And into the elder's heart. 


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Was another repeating one? 


Into the sinking breath, 

I call again to the conquering pain 
And add the favor of death. 


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And saw no other sail beside; hurrah! hurrah! the 
Who’er is monarch of the seas first 

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